Don't Blink...

...or you'll miss the latest, fast-paced installment of "Fantasy Friday."

Me, Myself and Dan Uggla

Celebrate Good Times, Come On

It feels like only yesterday we were making lame baseball jokes from our poorly constructed studio. But look at us now!

The Doctor Is In

Don't worry, Mets fans...it gets better.

(Important side note: It doesn't actually get any better)

Good Night, Sweet Prince

I don't wanna wait for our lives to be over.

I want to know right now: What will it be?

Who Loves Fantasy Friday?

Everybody, that's who.

Act A Fool

Sometimes it seems like nothing makes sense in this crazy world of ours.

Alfonso Soriano leads everyone in homers, Jose Bautista leads the AL in batting average and while I can't be certain, I'm pretty sure the squirrels outside my apartment are plotting something.

Just what in the name of Cal Ripken, Jr. is going on here?

Consider: The Twins got their former MVP Justin Morneau and stud closer Joe Nathan back, yet after a month of play have MLB's worst record.

Not only that, but Cleveland has leapfrogged the tumbling Twins and were the first team to win 20 games.

The Indians lost 24 more games than they won last season, and now they're the best team in the American League?

I call bullshit.

And then there's the Red Sox, who were supposed to go 154-8 and win the World Series in three games but have instead decided that being in third place with a half-game lead over Baltimore is way more awesome.

Now trust me, I'd love nothing more than to see Boston stumble for an entire season, Carl Crawford looking sad and confused, Jon Lester staring at umpires with that "You know I had cancer, right?" look on his face.

But the Griffs season is off to an abysmal start, so for the sake of my sanity I'd prefer it if more than one of my preseason predictions panned out.

Looks like nothing in this world is certain except death, taxes and Roy Halladay.

Here's this week's "Fantasy Friday." I need a stiff drink.

Ode to Game Seven

At some point in your life, you and someone you're close to are going to have an uneasy conversation.

Maybe it will be about money. Maybe it will be about staying "just friends."

Maybe it will be about somebody else taking out the recycling for once because Jacob does it every Monday morning and he's sometimes late for work because of it and you guys are jerks.

But for me, this fateful event occurred last Tuesday as my roommate Kyle's beloved Boston Bruins were losing Game 6 of their playoff series against their hated rivals, the Montreal Canadiens.

Now under normal circumstances, its best to give your friends ample time to digest tough losses.

When the Phils suffer an especially excruciating defeat, you'd be well advised to wait a full three minutes before asking me for a high five.

Otherwise...I mean, I'll still high five you, but it won't be as magical.

But on this night, there was no time to waste.

We had tentative plans to attend a Flyers-Bruins playoff game should the two meet, but with Boston staring at a Game 7 on their home ice, a thought that can only be described as brilliant popped into my head.

But I needed to act fast.

Luckily for me, I know just how to handle these situations.

The rules for broaching difficult subjects are the same as the rules for surviving bear attacks: Don't make any sudden movements, avoid eye contact at all cost and always protect your scrotum.

So with about six minutes left in the game, I went for it.

"Hey, bro? I have a question to ask you. I know this might not be the best time...but I've always been someone who believes in planning ahead."

History will remember what I said next as the turning point in our friendship, the moment Kyle stopped thinking of me as some fast-talking nancy boy and started thinking of me as some fast-talking nancy boy who had a really great idea that one time.

So I took a breath, looked at him and asked:

"Would you rather attend Flyers-Bruins Game 3...or Canadiens-Bruins Game 7?"


We're all familiar with the majesty of Game Seven: It's where dreams come true, it's where champions are made, it's where babies come from.

Game Seven is the only reason Aaron Boone ever has or ever will matter. Game Seven is the reason Jack Morris and his killer moustache are burned into our baseball consciousness.

So it was without a second thought that I emptied my bank account to see a playoff game between two teams that I marginally care about in my third-favorite sport.

Actually, that's not being fair.

While I love baseball and really like football, in the last two years it's become clear that nothing---seriously, nothing---is as exciting as playoff hockey.

The speed and intensity of the game is unrivaled in the postseason. Fans are louder (and drunker) and the action seemingly never stops.

Last Sunday I went to make a sandwich, came back and had missed five full minutes of Game 2 between the Lightning and the Capitals.

If I had been watching the NBA playoffs instead, I would have missed all of two LeBron James free throws and three Chevy commercials.

In fact, if I had to choose between only watching baseball or hockey for the rest of my days and factored in both the regular season and playoffs, I'd still pick baseball...but I'd have to think about it for a minute.

So, yeah. Hockey's pretty cool.

The Bruins got off to a fast start, scoring two goals in the first ten minutes.

Unfortunately, every Boston goal is followed by lights, whistles and this terrible dance song, then punctuated with wrestling icon Ric Flair's signature "Woo!"

(And although the 16-time World Champion hails from North Carolina and is probably a Hurricanes fan, I doubt the Bruins factor in pro wrestlers' home towns when selecting their pump up music. That's fine. I'm over it.)

The Canadiens eventually pulled even at 2-2, when another reason to love sports became readily apparent: Banding together in irrational hatred of opposing players.

On this night, much vitriol was directed toward Montreal rookie P.K. Subban, who clearly missed his true calling as an actor or a Navy seal, because he can take a dive like nobody's business.

And normally I'm all about booing the other team, except Subban just happens to be one of the few African-Americans that plays pro hockey, so booing him is eerily similar to criticizing President Obama.

Sure, my gripes may be legitimate...but Tyler Perry movies aren't funny and it's not racist to say that.

Either way, the Bruins pulled ahead 3-2 with ten minutes to play.

But a stupid high sticking penalty gave the Canadiens a power play with two minutes to go, and our old friend Subban was johnny-on-the-spot with a slapshot to tie the game at three.

I have never heard 17,565 people shut up so fast.

(Also, nice shot and all, P.K...but let's see your birth certificate.)

But while most fans were groaning about losing the lead, I suddenly realized that Subban had given this sports fan the greatest gift imaginable...

Game Seven Overtime.

Are you kidding me?!

Game Seven is sweet because failure is not an option. Overtime is sweet because the next goal wins.

But Game Seven Overtime? Holy smokes, I can't even...


Now, hockey doesn't actually make any sense. No sports do, really.

We pretend it's all perfectly logical because we've watched enough to understand it, but if you take a step back for a moment, you'll see just how weird us human beings really are.

For example: After about six minutes of overtime, a man wearing a black and gold sweater took a wooden stick and hit a black rubber disc towards a man wearing a white sweater and mask, only the man in the mask missed it and the black disc wound up in a predetermined scoring area.

Oh, and all the men who were there had steel blades on the bottom of their shoes. And this whole thing took place on a giant sheet of ice.

I'm telling you, sports are weird.

But when Nathan Horton's slapshot trickled passed Canadien's goalie Carey Price and found the back of the net, the arena erupted.

Hockey doesn't make any sense in theory, but in practice it makes me spill my beer, hug a stranger and get a pounding headache from screaming too much.

That's why sports are awesome: Find me another activity that can simultaneously cause almost 18,000 people to howl with delight.

Maybe if you work in a very large office building and your boss announces that you're all getting free tacos.

And if that's the case, are you hiring?

Regardless, sports unite people maybe better than any other single aspect of our culture. If you're attending a home game, you are instantly amongst friends.

There's winners and losers, a sense of camaraderie and an incredible catharsis. There's suspense, triumph and cheerleaders if you're lucky.

The HD TVs and video montages make it seem modern, but the drama and spirit of competition taps into some basic human emotion and connects everyone who shares it.

No wonder we say great players "put on a show for the ages" or "turned in a great performance."

Kyle will remember that night as the highest moment in all his years of fandom. I'll remember it as the night he and I became best friends.

He'll remember it as the night that no, we didn't.

But still, it was exciting.

It was incredibly loud, incredibly expensive and totally awesome. It was sweaty, electric and absolutely unforgettable.

It was Game Seven.

Woo!

Leave It To Weaver

The problem with April is that it doesn't last forever.

Although October makes a valiant effort to win the title of "Best Month of the Year," its Halloween hijinks and World Series heroics are no match for what April brings to the table.

It begins with baseball making a triumphant, long-awaited return.

This alone would be enough, but before you can even finish swooning over Matt Kemp, the Final Four swoops in with its buzzer beaters and broken hearts.

But if you're like me and you prefer your action to be fast, loud and slightly homoerotic, then the sports entertainment phenomenon known as Wrestlemania brings a shriek of joy to your curly-headed heart.

Throw in my birthday and the fact that Easter has inexplicably morphed into Summer Christmas and what we have here is overwhelming evidence that April friggin' rocks.

It's also the month when all the pretty girls finally ditch their scarves and break out the sundresses, giving me something nice to look at while I avoid eye contact with them at Walgreens.

Oh, April. Can't you stay a little longer?

Weekly Fake Baseball Video Time

And I thought the Griffs had a bad week...

Oh! The (Last) Places You'll Go!

Listen up, you lousy Griffs.

No time for buts
Or ands
Or ifs!

The season's only two weeks new
And reasons to rejoice are few.

We're not in first, that much is true.
So what, pray tell, are we to do?

We cannot hit, we cannot run,
We're having very little fun.

We often just rely on luck
(Because Grant Balfour really sucks)

We have few steals, and fewer saves.
I fear this may go on for days.

This is why I've called you here,
So grab a seat and lend an ear.

Chow down on some grubble snacks,
Wash it down with wuzzlewhacks,

Then chase it with some floozle beer,
And tell me what I want to hear:

Who will save the Griffs this year?

He's crying inside, I assure you.

Ian Desmond? Oh, where to start?
Your batting average breaks my heart.
At the plate you're overzealous.
Your approach makes Vlad Guerrero jealous.

All things considered, it's very clear
That you won't save the Griffs this year.

"Perhaps it's me?" Chone Figgins asked,
As the rest of us stifled laughs.
"I play two spots. I've got some speed. I could be just what we need!"

Perhaps he's right. He could be great...if this were 2008.

But in three years, how far he fell...
Can't hit, can't field, can't even spell.

I'm sorry, Shawn. It's much too clear
That you can't save the Griffs this year.

BJ Upton cried, "Well then it's me!"
Then suddenly he bruised his knee.

And as he screamed, his ankle sprained.

His lower back began to strain.

His shoulder then became inflamed.

He writhed around the floor in pain.

The injuries that he sustained

Left his broken body maimed.

He tried to move, it was in vain.

Then I heard him softly claim:

"I'm sorry, boss," as he shed a tear.

"Guess I won't save the Griffs this year."

Then who will do it? Who's the one?

Our year's already come undone!

We can't pitch, we can't spell.

Seriously, guys...what the hell?

Our broken hearts and double plays

And maimed and sprained and strained X-Rays

Plus Andrew Bailey's DL stay

Forebode a very dreary May

And confirm what I have dearly feared:

Can no one save the Griffs this year?

Then suddenly from far, far back

Beneath a dark blue baseball cap

There came a voice, and what'd it say?

It nearly blew us all away:

He said, "I know just what this team needs.

I know what we need, indeed!

It's way more simple than it seems

And it will work...it's guaranteed!"

"It's all so simple, gentlemen..."

The man in the blue hat said then.

And then he said the next thing he said:

"We simply must become best friends."

"With best friends, your worries come to an end.

You cannot be sad when you have best friends.

Best friends are the best friends that you can befriend.

So befriend some best friends 'til the losing streak ends!"

And what happened next for the Griffs team, you say?
Ian Desmond's average rose three points that day.

"Best friends will help us not to lose!"
Cried a happy Nelson Cruz.

"Best friends will help me change my luck!"
Said Grant Balfour (who still really sucks)

"We'll be the best!" screamed Mark Teixeira

Because Mark Teixeira is so Mark Teixeira.

Corks were popped on whuzzlewhacks

Buster Posey gorged on grubble snacks.

Clay Bucholz began to dance and cheer

As Tim Stauffer shotgunned floozle beer.

A raging party, oh yes it was.

(Big Papi got naked, just because)

And they shouted loud, for all to hear:

"Best friends will save the Griffs this year!"

So Long, And Thanks For All The Hits

I'm extremely excited to report that earlier this week, I took my first step towards manhood.

Now I can already tell what you're thinking and no...I didn't combine my TV, Internet and phone bill into one low monthly payment. This was even better.

I ate a bagel before work.

Now I can finally be one of those guys at the office who's all, "Donuts in the break room? No thanks, I had a bagel before work."

Great, right?

And as a freshly-minted member of the adult community, I want to assure you that I totally get it now.

I fully understand why not a single Wall Street banker or CEO was prosecuted for decimating the economy, yet Barry Bonds faces jail time for lying and hitting a few extra taters.

Priorities, man.

But that's not important right now.

What is important is this week's episode of "Fantasy Friday," a joyous occasion that's 50% drama, 50% comedy...and 100% man.

High Hopes

After days of rumination and quiet contemplation, I have reached the undeniable and inalienable conclusion that life as we know it is just not fair.

Why didn't anybody tell me?

It isn't fair that after weeks of preparation, multiple pep talks and even Pedro Alvarez doing a few extra push-ups, Hadouken Griffey Jr. still got thoroughly waxed in Week 1.

It isn't fair that we have a 1-10 record and sit in last place, getting an ache in our collective neck from staring up at the rest of the league.

It isn't fair that Pat Burrell has twice as many World Series rings as Chase Utley.

And it isn't fair that after years of practice, I can still never remember if the soda or ice cream goes first in my root beer float.

(Soda, right? I knew it.)

Yes, friend: The universe is a cold, random abyss and we are all nothing more than an assortment of cells, given this curse of consciousness so that we may lay awake at night weeping over Ian Desmond's batting average.

And oh, how you careen through the universe in elegant ignorance, each wandering soul a blip on your life's radar.

Literally every person you see changes your life, if you think about it.

Even passing a stranger on the street changes you, because ten seconds ago you had yet to see that stranger.

Be kind to them all, friend.

Every single one is fighting a tough battle, more than a few of them pertaining directly to Ian Desmond and his awful, awful batting average.

And while all souls are special...some are just a little more special than others.

Harry Kalas is the greatest baseball broadcaster that ever lived, and let me tell you why.

No, it's not just the way he screamed "...outta heeere!!," his raspy voice whipping Philadelphia fans into a frenzy for over thirty years.

And it wasn't just that he knew all the words to "High Hopes," a fact that became embarrassingly clear the day the Phillies won the NL East title in 2007.

I still remember seeing Harry drenched in champagne and more than a little tipsy, effortlessly rattling off what felt like seven different verses, a handful of remaining fans mumbling politely until the chorus.

(What, you're gonna cut the Hall of Famer's mic off? Please.)

The truth is, it was all of these things and more that made Harry Kalas the best ever. When the Phillies won the World Series in 2008, nothing about it felt official until I heard his voice.

I remember Eric Hinske flailing at strike three, but everything after was a little hazy until about ten minutes later.

After games upon games of Joe Buck's monotone drivel, FOX mercifully gave us Philly fans what we really wanted:

They replayed the final out, only this time it was Harry making the call.

"Swing and a miss! Struck him out! The Philadelphia Phillies are 2008 World Champions of baseball!"

And then everything made sense.

I remembered Shane Victorino belly-flopping onto the victory pile. I remembered Eric Bruntlett jumping around, dying for someone to hug him.

I even remembered Brad Lidge dropping to his knees, incredulously screaming, "Oh my god! We did it!"

(Because, let's be honest here: Even Brad Lidge didn't think Brad Lidge could do that.)

The problem is, reminiscing about the past makes me think about the present...a world where Chase Utley has bad knees, Jayson Werth is a National and Brad Lidge is back to being awful.

Then here's the other problem: Think about your favorite player, and there's a 97.6% chance he plays for your favorite team.

We root for whoever is wearing our team's colors, only the men wearing those colors changes all the time.

If Brian Roberts played for the Mariners, would the fine people of Baltimore still give a damn about him? Do they even give a damn about him now?

Free agents sign on, trades happen, players retire and the revolving door keeps spinning.

The constant shuffle can't help but dilute my memory as fewer and fewer players truly feel like dyed-in-the-wool Phillies.

But that was never a problem with Harry.

Players came and went, but Kalas was as constant as the northern star. That's what made him different.

That's why Harry Kalas is the greatest Phillie of all time: Because he really did belong to us.

He really was ours.


Two years ago today, Harry passed away. On a completely related note, two years ago today was one of the last times I openly wept.

I hopped on Internet message boards and saw a tremendous outpouring of emotion from die hard fans, then excused myself to the little boy's room because I needed to be alone.

It's a verified fact that Kalas is not the Phillies all-time wins leader, nor does he lead the franchise in stolen bases.

He's never thrown a complete game, never hit a grand slam and never closed out Game 7.

It's unlikely he'll ascend the career doubles list, and a shot at the ERA crown seems altogether out of the question.

But he was the best.

And I'm pretty sure you, too, have a guy on your favorite team that you love a little too much for reasons that transcend baseball and border on legitimate emotional connection.

My guy just happened to have spent his glory days in the booth and not on the field.

And in a perfect world he'd still be around, chuckling with delight at the sight of Roy Halladay mowing down the National League.

But that's not the case, because this big, dumb rock hurtling through this cold, random universe is just not fair.

Seriously, you guys: A little heads up would have been nice.

Gotta Get Down

Life is all about how you frame things.

For instance, I don't get stoned and eat nachos because I'm a loser, a hippie, a no-good punk or any combination of the three.

No, I do it because I'm launching a preemptive strike on the cancer that I assume is growing inside me after years of cell phone and wifi signals penetrating my body on a daily basis.

And I eat nachos because they're delicious.

Similarly, Hadouken Griffey Jr. isn't a shoddily put together, offensively inept squad with no true ace and only Joel Hanrahan racking up saves.

No, no, no.

We're just off to a slow start.

Former manager Gene Mauch once said:

"Losing streaks are funny. If you lose at the beginning you got off to a bad start. If you lose in the middle of the season, you're in a slump. If you lose at the end, you're choking."

So we've had a little trouble finding our bearings but are taking the "wait and see" approach as we head into the weekend trailing The Smother Huggers 8-3.

Trust me, it's the right move. The absolute worst thing you can do is overreact.

It's tempting to run full sprint to the waiver wire looking for any hitter who's off to a hot start, but be patient.

You drafted these guys for a reason. Give them a chance.

Acting too quickly only leads to mistakes and regret, until one morning you wake up on your ex-girlfriend's kitchen floor with cigarette burns on your arms and Nyjer Morgan in your lineup.

In fact, some of the Griffs are off to nice starts.

Mark Teixeira and Nelson Cruz have four homeruns apiece, and BJ Upton has a pair of homers and a stolen base.

Upton's early production is especially encouraging and could signal that he's ready to fulfill his immense potential, a far cry from his current distinction of being the easiest MLB player to make fun of.

Interestingly enough, BJ stands for "Bossman Junior."

It's a name he got from his father, who was nicknamed "Bossman" for reasons I could probably find out but won't, because it'd never be as cool as the reason I made up in my head.

BJ's full name is actually Melvin Emmanuel Upton, proving he's going to have a great season.

With such a nerdy first name and equally mockable nickname, he really has no choice but to be awesome.

"Don't let me down, son."

But while the Griffs stumble out of the gate, it's comforting to know the real season is playing out exactly as I envisioned it would.

Hitting .500 headed into today's action, I absolutely predicted a batting title for Nick Hundley. You have to believe me.

The sun is shining, Fat Joe and the Terror Squad have staked Philly to an early season division lead, and Mariano Rivera is back to getting professional baseball players out with one measly pitch.

In conclusion, all is right with the world.

But none of that matters right now.

What does matter is we're introducing a new feature to Warning Track Power today, and we certainly hope you enjoy it.

Presenting "Fantasy Friday," a labor of love between my roommates Geoff, Kyle and myself.

We'd like to thank you in advance for what we assume will be your overwhelming and undying support.

We'd also like to thank our two female roommates, Kate and Ginny, for being kind enough to mutter "You boys are stupid" under their breath and out of earshot.

(Well, mostly out of earshot. Kyle couldn't help but overhear. He cried forever)

Without further ado, we present the pilot episode of "Fantasy Friday."

Have a great weekend.

Hipster Hunting

Opening Day is the worst day of the year, and here's why:

Seeing the Cardinals reminded me that they won the World Series in 2006, which reminded me that Adam Wainwright closed out that World Series, which led me to think:

"Oh, cool. I bet when Adam Wainwright wins his Cy Young award, he'll be the only guy to have done those two things."

And then I remembered that Wainwright is out for the season and having Tommy John surgery.

And then I remembered how hard it is for pitchers to recover from Tommy John surgery.

And then I got amazingly, impossibly sad.

I'm not even a Cardinals fan...just a baseball fan, and the idea of Adam Wainwright never being the same seems incredibly unfair.

That's the problem with Opening Day: It's the first game out of 162 where all your hopes, dreams and expectations can come crashing to Earth like a misplayed pop-up.

That, and the realization that a svelte Kung-Fu Panda isn't really an improvement.

He doesn't look like Skinny Pablo Sandoval, he just looks like Fat Christian Guzman.

But for now, we have bigger fish to fry.

Gather 'round, Hadouken Griffey Jr, and hear of your first quest. We have a dire situation on our hands, and it requires our immediate attention.

Our Week 1 opponent, my roommate Geoff, is a hipster. This much is true.

He drinks cheap beer, likes lame music and dresses like a gay hobo.

He's also always saying annoying, pretentious things like "Get out of my room" and "Stop taking pictures of me."

These personality deficiencies are fine on their own. After all, he still loves baseball, so it can't be all bad, right?

But then it started.

In a dedicated attempt to win our league, Geoff threw himself into preseason preparation like never before.

Hours of research, mock draft after mock draft, pouring over statistics until the stupid eyes in his idiot head began to bleed.

I thought it was all harmless fun. I was wrong.

A change in his demeanor was obvious. He started to look at the game in a different light. After studying him closely, I'd reached a terrifying conclusion:

Geoff had become a Fantasy Baseball Hipster.

"My favorite stat is xFIP. It's really big in New York."

It started with the numbers.

Used to be if you mentioned any particular player, he'd respond with something along the lines of, "Gavin Floyd? That guy sucks."

But then his answers became more like, "Sure, Johnny Cueto is fine...if you like a starter whose K/9 rate has fallen the last three years."

I began to worry about the path my friend was headed down.

A path filled to the brim with formulas, stacked to the ceiling with ones and zeros, cluttering his mind with VORPs and BaBIPs until he could no longer see the beauty of the game.

A manager like Geoff never would have sent Kirk Gibson and his bad knees to the plate against Dennis Eckersley in Game 1 of the 1988 World Series.

And the manager in Major League didn't say, "I've crunched the numbers and Wild Thing has a 72.3% chance of inducing a ground ball."

No, he listened to the little man in his head and from beneath his thick, lustrous moustache announced:

"I got a hunch he's due."

That's what we're up against, boys: It's stats versus heart. It's that feeling in your gut versus the numbers on the page.

It's the difference between using data to prove Kyle Farnsworth is terrible...or just knowing that he is.

Luckily, I know how to handle this.

The original plan was to locate Bill James, the man behind sabermetrics and the author of the stat nerd's bible, The Bill James Handbook.

We were to find him and take him out, but it's not that simple. He's holed up somewhere in Kansas, no doubt bracing himself for the coming season.

He's probably in his lair right now, stockpiling ERA+ and UZR Ratings and manipulating obscure stats to prove David DeJesus is an MVP candidate.

David DeJesus?!

Oh, Bill James, you vile fiend.

Failing to contact this nefarious villain, we are enacting secondary protocol, tenatively titled "Plan B."

It's a fact that every master has an apprentice.

Emperor Palpatine had Darth Vader, Mr. Miyagi had Daniel-San, and I have Rinaldo, my Lithuanian neighbor who fetches me scones on the weekend.

(Rinaldo even did my taxes this year. I swear, that 8-year-old is a real go-getter)

And after weeks of searching, I have uncovered the identity of Bill James' pupil.

The time has come to do what's right. To stand up for what we believe in, and to save our friend's baseball soul.

Gentlemen, we have to find and kill Shin-Soo Choo.

"Sorry, what?"

Every preseason, the Bill Jameses of the world try to convince you that Choo's 20 homeruns and 20 stolen bases are the key to your season.

They'll say things like "For as late as he's going in mock drafts..." and "He could be a real sleeper...," hoping their awesome buzz words lure you like a hipster moth to the fantasy flame.

In fact, this overabundance of nerd love has skyrocketed Shin-Soo in most rankings and now everyone is aware of what he's capable of.

So now you're not even drafting smart...you're just drafting some dude who bats third on an awful team and hits one homerun every three weeks.

Good luck with that.

But still, Choo is their champion, the man they tout above all others.

So he must be destroyed.

We shall fight on the fields and in the streets. We shall fight on the mounds and in the bullpens.

We shall fight in foul ground and fair, in dugouts and box seats. We shall defend our ideals, whatever the cost may be.

We shall never surrender.

A day may come when the love of baseball fans fails, when we forsake our game and break all bonds of friendship.

But it is not this day.

I know not how long we must endure, but I can see a not-too-distant future where all is right...

The clock slowly ticks away in Round 15 of a fantasy draft as I struggle to make my next pick. Closer and closer to zero we creep.

I turn to Geoff and, panicking, ask, "Billy Butler or Ryan Theriot?"

For a moment, he doesn't speak.

But there is a happiness in his eyes, a spark of hope, a shining light not seen in ages.

As a single tear begins to roll down his cheek, Geoff looks to me and says:

"Billy Butler? That guy sucks."

A Love Letter to Opening Day

I like you.

The reasons should be obvious: You make me laugh, you make me think, you've got a good heart and you're so easy on the eyes it's ridiculous.

Like any good American I like a nice, cold beer after a long day of work.

I like dogs, and I like bow ties...but I don't like dogs wearing bow ties.

I like sleeping in on weekends, ordering a cheesesteak for lunch and convincing myself that beating Megaman counts as a successful Saturday.

Not only do I enjoy watching TV, but I'm also really, really good at it.

I'm a maestro with the remote control. Flipping channels like a boss, back right before the commercial break's over, oh no, what channel is TBS again? Don't worry, baby, I got this.

It's a skill.

I like sunsets, long walks on the beach and making obvious jokes.

I like root beer floats, the comedic stylings of Louis C.K. and the Canadian national anthem.

I really, really like grape juice.

If you asked me to have a Liam Neeson movie marathon, I would not say no. We can even watch Love Actually, but only if there's cuddling (at which, suffice it to say, I'm also fantastic).

I like getting the final Jeopardy! question right, but only if all my roommates get it wrong.

I get a chuckle every time I think of the only two jokes my Dad knows, one of which involves food, the other of which I can't print here.

I'm always going to like Return of the Jedi more than The Empire Strikes Back, and you nerds are just going to have to deal with it.

I like watching old wrestling matches on Youtube, and have spent too much of my spare time comparing and contrasting the careers of Albert Pujols and "The Heartbreak Kid" Shawn Michaels.

No, seriously...do you have any grape juice?

I believe that few things are as thrilling as a Final Four buzzer beater, that playoff hockey is just plain awesome, and that the Monday after the Super Bowl should be a national holiday.

I like barbecue in the summer, hot apple cider in the fall and great big hugs every day of the year.


But I love baseball.

I love bases-clearing doubles to the gap. I love going from first to third on a hit-and-run. I love 12-to-6 curveballs and backward Ks.

I love dollar dog nights, throwback uniforms and any player who wears high socks (especially you, Joe Blanton).

I love the sound of 40,000 fans groaning at ball four, trying to convince the umpire it caught the corner when it was really a foot outside.

I love that baseball reminds me of summertime, which in turn reminds me of early Bruce Springsteen records. Baseball is my #1, but the Boss is a close second.

If you're a female with a nice smile and intimate knowledge of the infield fly rule, please email me immediately.

I love watching games with fans of rival teams, then arguing about check swings as if anyone knows what the hell they're talking about.

Mets fan: "That was a strike. Come on."
Me: "No way, bro. His wrists didn't break."
Mets fan: "Oh, really? Well lucky me! 'Breaking wrists' and 'offering at a pitch' are the vaguest and most poorly defined rules in baseball, and we could argue forever about any close call, but lookie here, the one person in the world who can define it just happens to be gracing us with his brilliant presence. So out with it, Doubleday...just what exactly does it mean?"

(This is the part where I retreat into the darkness, drenched in humiliation)

(On a completely unrelated note, fuck the Mets)

But oh Jesus, Mary and Nomar Garciaparra, do I love baseball.

I love watching Aroldis Chapman pitch.

His gangly arms and legs winding up, his right knee lifting to a picture-perfect point like some Czechoslovakian ballerina, all concluding with a blink-and-you-miss-it, record-breaking 105-MPH laser beam.

I love watching Carlos Pena hit.

A summa cum laude grad from Swing Hard In Case You Hit It University, Carlos waits and waits until the absolute last moment before whipping his hands around in a violent motion, his bat ripping through the atmosphere like a man possessed.

I love that so much of the game is set in stone...

The count is 2-0? You're getting a fastball.
Winning by three? Warm up the closer.
First pitch of the game? Don't you dare swing, you heartless bastard.

...but still, after so much strategy follows such a strict template, one or two little things happen every game that I've never seen before.

In fact, the Brewers led off their season with back-to-back homers.

When was the last time Peyton Manning hit back-to-back homers?

Exactly.

Basically, baseball is my favorite thing.

Not my favorite sport, not my favorite hobby, not my favorite way to kill time on a lazy Saturday (after I've beaten Megaman and celebrated with a cheesesteak).

No, it's my favorite thing...period.

And it's finally back.

Like the perfect summer romance it will be here every day for the next few months, make my heart race time and again, provide ample amounts of excitement and disappointment, then fade away like an echo once the leaves begin to change.

But don't worry. It always returns at the first sight of spring...and like the best of pals, we'll pick up right where we left off.

Welcome back, old friend.

The NL East: Joyful, Joyful

I was watching the show-stopping finale of Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit the other day when a feeling I'd not experienced in months crept up on me.

Equal parts "Is this really happening?" and "This is truly incredible," a maddening blur of bright 90s clothes and awful Jesus rapping, I stared incredulously as I tried to pinpoint the previous source of this sensation.

An overwhelming amount of joy, mixed with a sense of disbelief, then topped off with more joy...why was this feeling so familiar?

And then it hit me.

In the hours leading up to the Cliff Lee signing last December, a series of texts and Internet rumors led me to ponder, "Is this really happening?"

And once it was confirmed Lee would be joining Roy Oswalt, Cole Hamels and reigning Cy Young winner Roy Halladay, I couldn't believe it.

"This is truly incredible," I mumbled the next morning.

And the day after that. And the one after that, too.

Even if you don't like the Phillies, even if these five minutes were the highlight of Lauryn Hill's career, even if you think this analogy is a huge stretch (but admit it...you're impressed), the end result is the same:

This is really getting out of hand.

More like Mt. Strikeoutsmore, amirite?!

PHILADELPHIA PHILLIES: As is often the case in sports, I fear this season it will become acceptable--even expected--to hate on the team from the City of Brotherly Love.

Whenever a team gets too successful, a backlash is inevitable.

Fans just get sick of seeing the same faces and same matchups year after year, and begin to openly root for those winning teams to crash and burn.

Luckily, the Phils have been immune to this phenomena so far, mostly because Jimmy Rollins has a winning smile, the whole team plays hard and Roy Halladay is way better than you.

But repercussions are coming. I can feel it.

It's a shame, really. Rather than projecting their own feelings of inadequacy onto people whose only crime is being excellent at their jobs, haters should look inward.

They should be adults about the situation, take a good look in the mirror and ask themselves the tough questions, such as "Why do I do the things I do?" and more importantly, "Should I be nicer to Jacob?"

ATLANTA BRAVES: Another thing I'm worried about: Those pesky Braves.

When the Mets finally usurped them in 2006, ending their amazing streak of 11 straight division titles, I was hoping they'd go away for awhile and let the rest of us have some fun for once.

Nope.

Jason Heyward is a rising star, Tommy Hanson has "future ace" scrawled on his forehead, and Chipper Jones can't imagine a world where he isn't torturing me on a daily basis.

I know he's always hurt, but he knows that I know that.

And he knows how he routinely ruined every summer I had as a child. He just likes reminding me.

Damnit, Larry. Leave me alone! Don't you have anything better to do?

LoL, u mad bro?

FLORIDA MARLINS: Hanley Ramirez has a new friend this season, and his name is Mike Stanton.

And since I don't want to bog you down with "stats" or "hyperbole" or "other words," let me just tell you that Mike Stanton is strong.

Really, really strong.

No, seriously, he's like...so strong, you guys.

Those two should give opponents more than a few headaches, and Josh Johnson is a dark horse Cy Young candidate.

But how will society respond to Chris Coglan and Emilio Bonifacio's interracial relationship?

(You know what? Scratch that. I got real life and Save the Last Dance mixed up again. Happens all the time)

NEW YORK METS: Spoiler alert: I hate the Mets.

But I don't hate them for the reasons you'd think (namely, that they're the Mets).

No, that's too easy.

I hate them because the Phils and the Mets should have waged war for the next decade, two stacked teams playing rivalry-fueled baseball with an intensity only reserved for hated enemies.

Regardless of who won, we should have witnessed tight division races for the last five seasons or so, with many more classics yet to be played out.

Jose Reyes. Carlos Beltran. David Wright. Carlos Delgado. Jason Bay. Johan Freaking Santana. Where did it all go wrong?

(Probably around the "Jason Bay" part, but that's not important right now)

Instead, it isn't even fun to ridicule them anymore. They're a mess. It's a joke.

It's gotten so bad that I legitimately feel sorry for David Wright sometimes.

Those bastards, how could you do this to me? You think I get excited when Nationals come to town? Seriously? Come on!

We should all be so angry.

WASHINGTON NATIONALS: Oh, hey Washington. I was just talking about you.

Jayson Werth got himself a ring with the Phils, and then decided to go and get his money.

No hard feelings, man. Thanks for 2008. Say "Hello" to Barack for me.

I wish you nothing but luck in the future.

He'll need it.

AND THE WINNER IS: I mean, it has to be Philly, right?

Don't get me wrong, these Phillies got old in a hurry.

Chase Utley's knee issues scare the bejeezus out of me, and Brad Lidge...well, Brad Lidge sucks.

But still, the Phillies have the four best starting pitchers in the division. That's just ridiculous.

They should be able to find a way to win behind such a potentially dominant rotation and a lineup that still features Ryan Howard, he of the oh-so-pretty homeruns.

The Braves are loaded, but I think they're still a little young to run with the big boys.

Or rather, I hope they are.

It should be an exciting race, and it should be a great season.

Opening Day is almost here. The fields are lined, the grass is cut and the beer is already overpriced.

There's only one thing left to say...that timeless catch phrase, the best three words in the English language:

Fuck the Mets.

The AL East: Let's Get This Over With

Under normal circumstances, I can bang out 800-1,200 words about baseball in no time flat.

I sit in my room and yell out an idea, any idea, just to put it out into the world...

"The resurgence of base stealers set against the landscape of a crumbling American economic infrastructure!"

...and within moments the idea has returned to me like a boomerang, only now its bursting at the seams with insight, clever angles and enough bad puns to make Joe Buck's head explode.

But then there's the AL East.

Quite simply, I'm sick of the Yankees and the Red Sox.

I'm sick of the hype, sick of all 18 of their games being nationally televised, sick of hearing it's the biggest rivalry in the game, and sick of Kevin Youkilis and his sad, puppy dog eyes.

If I'm a mathematician, then Joba Chamberlain is the popular early-90s comedian Sinbad.

Wow, that made absolutely no sense.

See, that's what these teams do to me: They sap my inspiration and stifle my creativity under the weight of their four-and-a-half hour games and piles of money.

They are my kryptonite, my anti-muse, the bane of my existence, my single biggest weakness.

Well, that and Jewish girls.

Mazel tAAARRRGH!

NEW YORK YANKEES: Based out of the Bronx in New York City, New York (in America), the Yankees are a baseball team that plays in the eastern division of the American League.

From 1928-2008, they played their baseball games in Yankee Stadium, a structure collaboratively designed by famed New York City architects George Herman Ruth and Art Vandelay.

They now play in New Yankee Stadium, which is a lot like the old one, only newer.

Their uniforms are unique for not having the player's last name on them.

So the next time you meet a Yankee fan wearing an authentic jersey that says "Jeter" on the back, that person is either an idiot or a liar.

Possibly both.

BOSTON RED SOX: Boston was a little late to the "let black people play baseball" party, being the last MLB team to integrate in 1959.

That was over a decade after Jackie Robinson debuted with the Dodgers, a fact I'm sure they left out of the Carl Crawford sales pitch last winter.

But located in the heart of the city, Fenway Park is just a short walk from Boston Beerworks, a lively sports bar and the perfect place to watch a ball game.

Opened in 1992, Beer Works has everything: A friendly staff, a festive atmosphere and a multitude of homemade micro brews on tap to quench your thirst as you root, root, root for the home team.

And with TVs at every turn, you'll be able to catch every Bruins goal and every Ray Allen three-pointer in glorious high definition.

And what better way to celebrate a friend's birthday or show your employees a good time than by booking your next event there?

Call 617-536-BEER to start planning today, or just visit them here.

Tell them Jacob sent you.

Go Pats!

TAMPA BAY RAYS: Maybe more than any other team in the division, the Rays play the game the right way.

Their first baseman is routinely 4-5 feet off the baseline, far enough away to help the second baseman with in-between grounders, but not so far that he can't snag a sharply hit ball down the line.

When men are on base, the shortstop always plays a little bit closer to second, making it much easier to turn a double play in the event of a ground ball.

They always know who is up to bat next, and often know who bats after that guy, too.

I swear, Joe Maddon is a genius.

The Rays are also great listeners. Whenever a ball is hit into the air (a "fly ball"), the player with the best chance to catch it always yells "I got it!" and the other guys take notice.

Actually, Evan Longoria usually screams "Mine!", but that's just because he likes to be different.

TORONTO BLUE JAYS: Canada is the country Americans always threaten to move to when the get sick of freedom.

And even though the Blue Jays are a Canadian team, they play in the American League.

Crazy, right?

BALTIMORE ORIOLES: It's been said that nothing rhymes with "oriole," but I think "tutorial" comes pretty close.

Can we get a ruling on this?


AND THE WINNER IS: Whoa, I blacked out for a second there. What the heck is that picture?

And where the heck are my pants?

Anyway, this year the division figures to be a two-team race between...wait for it...the Yankees and the Red Sox.

Oh well.

While their rotation is suspect after Jon Lester and Clay Bucholz, an absolutely stacked lineup means the division is Boston's to lose.

They'll hit the heck out of the ball, and even if closer Jonathan Papelbon falters, fireballer Daniel Bard will be there to pick up the pieces.

And even though Kevin Youkilis never smiles, there's just something about him I find...intriguing.

I never could quite put my finger on it.

...wait, what?

What do you mean he's "of the tribe"?

That he's one of "the Chosen People"?

That can't be true. It just can't be.

That would mean...no...

No...

NOOOOOOO...

Mazel tov, bitch.

Meet the Griffs

I want to take this time to assure you that I've done everything in my power to convey the following message with the heart, conviction, and dedicated sense of grandeur it deserves.

Because that's what great writers do: We put into words the often indescribable twinges and longings that you normals refer to as "feelings."

We scour the English language and navigate the depths of human emotion to collect a series of words that, when organized correctly, form a perfect nugget of truth that rolls effortlessly off the tongue and high fives the soul.

Unfortunately, it was no use.

After countless hours and numerous re-writes, it's become clear that no amount of metaphors, no clever combination of catch phrases, no elegant levels of alliteration can adequately express the following idea.

As is so often the case, the best way appears to be the direct approach.

So here goes:

(ahem)

Ken Griffey, Jr. was fucking sweet.


A prodigal son the moment he stepped on the field, Junior had it all: The defensive prowess of Willie Mays, the power and plate discipline of Albert Pujols, and just the prettiest swing you've ever seen.

In his MVP year of 1997, Griffey turned in one of the best regular seasons by someone probably not on steroids, leading the league in homers (56), RBIs (147), runs (125) and slugging percentage (.646).

He's also the namesake of the best baseball video game ever, "Ken Griffey Jr's Slugfest" for the N64.

A cameo in Little Big League and one winning smile later, we have the makings of the greatest player of all time, the Chosen One, the man who would be king.

But it was not meant to be.

The new millennium would not be kind to The Kid, as his career fell apart practically the moment he was traded to Cincinnati in 2000.

Injury after injury robbed Griffey of his prime, and robbed us all of a world where the homerun champion isn't Barry Bonds.

In an alternate universe where bones don't break, muscles don't tear and I know how to talk to women, Griffey has over 800 homeruns, multiple MVP awards and I can't cat sit tonight because I have a date.

Sorry, bro.

The man should be remembered as the best to ever step foot in a batter's box. But instead, he represents a destiny unfulfilled, baseball's ultimate "What might have been."

Which is why I named my fantasy team after him.

Like Griffey, this team I've assembled has the potential to be not just good...not just great...but the single most dominant fake baseball team Yahoo.com has ever seen.

Carlos Gonzalez has that look in his eye. So does Anibal Sanchez.

Buster Posey got a taste of glory last season and is hungry for more.

And Chad Billingsley?

Oh, you best believe he has what it takes.

With the hypothetical G.O.A.T as our inspiration and spiritual leader, we have all the pieces in place: A stacked lineup with power and speed, a deep rotation and a team name that is almost perfect.

We just need something more.

A cherry on the fantasy moniker sundae. Something strong and powerful.

Something to make the rest of the league stand up, take notice and make a collective "gulp" noise in an exaggerated, comical manner.

We need a hadouken.

A what, you say? I'm so glad you asked.


It begins as a spark.

A faint, flickering light buried in the deepest, darkest caverns of one's soul.

B.J. Upton has it. So does Joel Hanrahan.

Slowly, it starts to grow. A tiny, pulsating ball of energy, it ricochets through your body like a pinball, surging exponentially in strength until it reaches the tips of your fingers.

Building and building in intensity, it explodes from your hands.

A swirling, concentrated fireball of your very own life force, it rips through the universe with the reckless abandon of a drunk-driving senior citizen, destroying everything in its path.

The very fireball that Max Scherzer bullets into the strike zone at 95 MPH.

The same pulsating life force that David Ortiz routinely deposits into the Fenway seats.

We are the fantasy team you deserve, but not the one you need right now.

We are the meteoric spark of life, an unstoppable force of limitless potential, a destroyer of worlds and a defender of truth, justice and the American pastime.

We are Hadouken Griffey Jr....and we will wreck your shit.

The NL Central: Old Faces, New Fears

The secondary goal of human existence is to dress animals up like people, but that's not important right now.

The primary goal is to make memories.

We dress up, we go out, we have fun and we photograph the entire occasion.

As a society, we've done an excellent jobs of creating designated checkpoints to observe and celebrate these moments.

Holidays, weddings, theme parties...all provide ample opportunities to kick back and enjoy life.

(For any non-Caucasian readers out there: First of all, welcome. Second, a "theme party" is where white people dress up in similar costumes and pretend to be clever. It's like Halloween, but in May. Don't ask why we do it. No one knows)

But for all these forced interactions fueled by alcohol and the desire to not die alone, one stands above the rest as the perfect mix of nostalgia and schadenfreude.

One event brilliantly toes the line between "reliving the good 'ol days" and "the social equivalent of a six car pileup."

I'm talking, of course, about a high school reunion.

You dress up nice and arrive fashionably late (and fashionably drunk).

You slowly head to the door, silently praying that your ex is fat and married with an ugly child.

And oh! How the memories come flooding back as you see a giant banner above the entrance, lovingly decorated by some spinster who couldn't score a date.

There is no division in baseball with more familiar faces than the NL Central.

There's just something about the mid-western anonymity that makes it the perfect place to fade into obscurity.

ST. LOUIS CARDINALS: And if the NL Central is your high school reunion, the Cardinals were the prom queen.

A lot of history, championships and accolades in her early years, she was voted Most Likely to Succeed in a landslide.

But now she's gotten a little older, one of her aces (Adam Wainright) is out for the season, and that meal ticket she's been riding all these years (Albert Pujols) could be looking for a divorce soon.

You may have wanted the prom queen's life for the last ten years, but the next ten seem rife with uncertainty.

In fact, just the sight of the once-great Lance Berkman riding pine is enough to fill me with a sense of impending doom.

Still, a strong rotation and the best player alive would be enough to win the division in most seasons, except...

CINCINNATI REDS: ...some previously frumpy band geek ditched the glasses, took a yoga class, got her hair did and showed up to the party as a stone cold hottie.

(You're in love with this analogy, right? Right?)

On the back of Joey Votto's MVP season, the Reds came from seemingly nowhere to knock the Cards off their perch atop the division last season.

And while it may seem like there's no difference between starters Edinson Volquez and Johnny Cueto---both being young and Dominican with career ERAs around 4.30---you must dig deeper.

Volquez is a power pitcher with a tight slider and a lively fastball, but Cueto relies on location and worships the dark lord Sauron while feasting on the souls of the damned.

Edinson was an All-Star in 2008 and started Game 1 of last year's NLDS, while Johnny has roamed the Earth for 7,000 years and bursts into flames when doused in holy water.

Lastly, Edinson Volquez really loves House, but Cueto thinks it's overrated. And he can never die.

"The plot is really formulaic, that's all I'm saying."

Incredibly, manager Dusty Baker failed to shatter Aroldis Chapman's arm into a thousand pieces last season, prompting many to wonder if he had lost his patented, career-obliterating touch.

I'm not worried, though. He has big plans for Homer Bailey and Travis Wood this year. I can feel it.

Don't let me down, Dusty.

CHICAGO CUBS: Aw heck, who doesn't love the Cubs?

The Cubs are the guy who everybody just liked in high school, either for his affable nature or the fact that you never felt threatened leaving your girlfriend alone with him.

And with a roster chock full of Carlos Penas and Ryan Dempsters, who wouldn't want to root for this little guy?

Problem is, it's tough to imagine them putting up much of a fight this season.

Former superstar Alfonso Soriano still patrols left field, Aramis Ramirez is over the hill, and resident loose cannon Carlos Zambrano is good for three headaches a season (at least).

It's a shame, too, because baseball is just more exciting when Chicago is contending.

The Cubs are like pizza, or sex: When they're good, life is great. When they're bad, they ruin my 9th birthday party.

MILWAUKEE BREWERS: The older kid in class who got left back a few times, you only paid attention to him because he could get you booze.

Which is great, because that's the name of the damn team.

This analogy is incredible, I keep telling you.

But nowadays we're paying attention not just because Ryan Braun and Prince Fielder are awesome, but because the 1-2 punch of Yovani Gallardo and Zack Greinke are so good they'll make your spell check explode.

And with Yuniesky Betancourt and Rickie Weeks as a double-play team, we'll finally have an answer to the question, "Is it possible to win if you're just awful?"

All (hilarious) jokes aside, the Brewers are a deep team with a lot of veteran presence off the bench.

Mark Kotsay is great for clubhouse morale, and Craig Counsell wants nothing more than to be your friend.

Throw in a potentially dominant closer in John Axford, and Milwaukee is no longer just a team with a mascot that haunts my dreams.

"You can't stay awake forever."

PITTSBURGH PIRATES: But it's nice to know some things never change.

The Pirates were losers back then, and they're losers today.

With Adrian Gonzalez and Ryan Zimmerman getting new friends this offseason, Pirates centerfielder Andrew McCutchen is officially the loneliest superstar in baseball.

Congratulations, Andrew. I'd drop the trophy off at your birthday party, but I'm not coming. Nobody is.

But chin up, pal. At least you have some sweet digs.

PNC Park is picturesque, basically making it the sweetest parents' basement of all time.

HOUSTON ASTROS: An artsy loner whose Dad made him play high school football, the Astros just don't belong.

During pigskin season in the Lonestar State, it's tough to remember these fellas even exist. Which only makes things more difficult, because it's tough to remember they exist in the first place.

Don't waste too much time on them this season, but do check in periodically as Bill Hall, Clint Barmes and Humberto Quintero play everyone's favorite game, "Let's see who can get benched first."

My money's on Bill Hall.

A decent player a few years ago, he's bound to lose interest after Hunter Pence's annual Memorial Day Totally 80's theme party.

AND THE WINNER IS: Before Wainwright went down, I was ready to pick the Cardinals to bounce back.

But now? I'm going with Milwaukee.

Few teams are lucky enough to have an offensive duo the likes of Braun/Fielder or the dueling aces of Gallardo/Greinke, but the Brew Crew has both.

This was probably the toughest division to call so far. But it's like I always say:

When in doubt, go with the terrifying Hulk Hogan Muppet.

That's just smart baseball.

Central Questions

We head to middle America to tackle a question that has plagued mankind for two and a half decades:

If God is all powerful, can he make a division so lame that even I can't stand it?

It's a single question with no singular answer. Personally, I have nothing against the fine cities of Chicago, Cleveland, Detroit, Kansas City and Minnesota.

More than once I've found my self driving a Ford, munching on a deep dish pizza, singing along to "Purple Rain" while pondering the deeper meanings of The Drew Carey Show.

So trust me, I get it.

And yet something about these five clubs fills me up with an overwhelming feeling of indifference.

Maybe it's the uniforms. Maybe it's the stadiums. Maybe it's the lingering emotional damage of Major League 3: Back to the Minors.

But I've checked and rechecked and there's no way around it: One of these teams is going to win the division.

So we're forced to take a closer look, even if analyzing the AL Central is my second least-favorite thing.

Meet number one, y'all.

DETROIT TIGERS: We begin in Detroit, arguably the most American of cities. This place has everything: Motown, fast cars, and a dwindling sense of hope matched only by the crippling poverty.

The Tigers signed catcher Victor Martinez to a 4-year/$50M deal this winter, an addition they hope will force opponents to pitch to Miguel Cabrera, who can be the best hitter alive if he just gets his mind right.

The flamethrowing duo of Justin Verlander and Max Scherzer are joined by oft-injured Brad Penny and talented young righty Rick Porcello.

But it's the offense that keeps manager Jim Leyland up at night, chain smoking Marlboros and yelling that he can't find Regis on the picture box.

Incredibly, every batter in Detroit's lineup is one year older than they were last season...an excellent strategy if you want discounts at brunch, but terrible if you want to win baseball games.

Their underwhelming offense features veterans Brandon Inge, Magglio Ordonez and Jhonny Peralta (which I spelled correctly, you have to believe me).

With so many lackluster bats, it's unclear if Detroit can hit enough to contend. After Cabrera and Martinez, this team turns into a grandmother: Old, frail and always calling to talk about stamp prices.

CLEVELAND INDIANS: They've traded two Cy Young winners in the last four years, and the face of their franchise is now the shell of Grady Sizemore's former self.

Not only that, but Bon Jovi was left off the 2011 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame ballot.

Man, Cleveland can't do anything right.

CHICAGO WHITE SOX: From the city that brought you the Super Bowl Shuffle comes a hilarious new comedy which proves you can choose your team, but you can't choose your teammates.

When Jake Peavy was traded to the White Sox in 2009, he was hoping for a chance at a ring.

But he never thought he'd find something even more valuable...a friend.

One's a former Cy Young winner recovering from injury. One's a soft-tossing lefty with a heart of gold.

Together, they're taking on all comers...if they don't drive each other crazy first!

This season, Jake Peavy and Mark Buehrle are...

You would so watch this.

Of all the "meh" infesting the AL Central, no team is more "meh" than Chicago. Last year they were 8th in the league in RBIs, 6th in OPS and 8th in ERA.

They do everything well, but do nothing great.

Their offense and pitching don't scare you, but you can't sleep on them, either. Nothing to write home about...just uninspired, bland medioctiry all around.

They're probably Tom Petty's favorite team.

MINNESOTA TWINS: Many feared that moving from the Metrodome to Target Field would rob the Twins of their unique home field advantage while simultaneously decimating the already struggling giant-trashbag-for-a-right-field-wall industry.

Only one of those worries came to fruition as the Twins won their second straight AL Central crown.

Even more impressive, they did it without their stud closer (Joe Nathan, elbow injury) and slugging 1B (Justin Morneau, Canadian).

The Twins are the ultimate scrimpers and savers, paying big money to their franchise guys (Morneau and Joe Mauer) and surrounding them with cheap, effective labor.

Despite only Jim Thome topping 25 HRs, they still finished 3rd in the league in hitting (.273), 4th in RBIs (749) and 4th in OPS (.762).

Get 'em on, get 'em over, get 'em in, don'tcha know.

The rotation is solid behind ace Francisco Liriano and 17-game winner Carl Pavano, and a bullpen that finished 8th in ERA (3.49) will be even better with Nathan back to close.

That's what the Twins do: Take a superstar or two, add some low-priced talent and fill in the blanks along the way.

They're the Miami Heat of baseball, but with much better results.

And way better moustaches.

KANSAS CITY ROYALS: On any other team, closer Joakim Soria is a household name, posting 40+ saves with a sub-2.00 ERA in two of his last three seasons.

But on the Royals?

He's just really, really lonely.

AND THE WINNER IS: Minnesota.

Apologies for the lack of build up, but good reasons to pick another club are few and far between.

The Twins won the division by six games last year, and the returns of Nathan, Morneau and Carl Pavano's flavor saver will only make them stronger.

With such a well-rounded squad, we could be looking at a dark horse World Series candidate. I can see it now:

It's a chilly day in late October as floats roll down various Minneapolis avenues.

Joe Mauer holds the World Series trophy aloft for the fans to see. Michael Cuddyer waves to the masses as a breath of cold air escapes from his grinning face.

But on the lead float, Carl Pavano is silent.

His World Series MVP trophy is beside him. He doesn't wave, shout, hoot or holler. He just stares into the distance, stuck in a zen-like state of perfect serenity.

King of his own world, he stands like George Washington crossing the Delaware River...defiant, triumphant, a true champion.

Soaking in every last moment, he closes his eyes and faces forward, his glorious lip-tickler leading the victory parade.

Who wants a moustache ride?

Go West, Young Man

In case you didn't know, America is awesome.

Think about it: You can make a phone call and, within the hour, have food of almost any ethnicity delivered to your house.

You can videotape your favorite TV programs and watch them at a later date, where you can concentrate better because you're not all stoned.

And you can do a terrible job of picking division winners (like here and here) but still come back and do it again next year, because this is the Internet and no one can fire you.

Let's do this thing.

Pictured (left to right): Baseball players.

SAN FRANCISCO GIANTS: We begin in San Francisco, home of the champs.

Major kudos to manager Bruce Bochy, whose bold "Great starting pitching + maybe Cody Ross will get hot + hope to God we can beat Cliff Lee" strategy worked to perfection.

And just like last year, they'll go as far as Tim Lincecum can carry them. But how far is that?

Consider: At only 26 years old, Lincecum has three consecutive strikeout titles, two Cy Young Awards and one World Series ring.

Assuming he pitches for ten more seasons, he projects to with nine Cy Youngs and five World Series titles.

("But he's no Sandy Koufax!" cries Peter Gammons, hoping someone will listen)

And don't bother checking my math. It's flawless. See? You may think fantasy baseball blogging is easy and a waste of time, but it's actually only one of those things.

Once again with San Fran, it's the offense that could be their undoing. A much slimmer Pablo Sandoval rejoins Pat Burrell, Aubrey Huff and Buster Posey in the starting lineup. Hey, you could do worse (see: the Padres).

Throw in Brian Wilson going crazy and Lincecum's past drug incidents and you have a club that won't feel any pressure to repeat.

Either because they're true professionals, or because they've already forgotten they won in the first place.

LOS ANGELES DODGERS: After two straight NLCS appearances, the Dodgers failed to make the postseason and finished third in 2010.

Gone are the dreadlocked antics of Manny Ramirez. Gone is the Yoda-like wisdom of Joe Torre, replaced by some guy named Don Mattingly.

Yeah, I've never heard of him either.

But Dom Mattison will have plenty of firepower as Matt Kemp, Andre Ethier and James Loney all continue to improve. Rafael Furcal can still be a dangerous leadoff man, and Casey Blake continues to be a BP superstar.

And just like their rivals, the Dodgers' rotation is deep. Clayton Kershaw and Chad Billingsley are a formidable 1-2 punch, Ted Lilly has his good days, and Jon Garland is still a pitcher that teams hire to pitch.

The left/right tandem of Hong-Chih Kuo and Jonathan Broxton should provide fits for opposing hitters in late innings. With solid arms all around, everything rides on the bats.

Anybody know if Dan Mattiger was a good hitter?

SAN DIEGO PADRES: Imagine you've just finished a great date and you're standing on the doorstep, smiling at each other, neither wanting to be the first one to say goodbye.

It's entirely likely they're waiting for a good night kiss but you freeze up, mumble farewell and retreat into the darkness.

Oh, well. Maybe next time.

Except the next morning you decide, "Screw it, that was close enough. I should destroy my phone so I don't accidentally call them."

Congratulations on ruining what could have been a great thing. Or as I like to call it, "pulling a Padre."

After finishing two games out in the division last season, San Diego decided, "Screw it, that was close enough," shipped Adrian Gonzalez to Boston and chucked their cell phones into the Pacific.

What exactly is the plan here, boys? Close your eyes and hope some deus ex machina nonsense goes down? Try your hardest and hope you all learn valuable lessons about friendship?

Miracles like that just don't happen. This isn't Friday Night Lights.

Clear eyes, full hearts, last place.

COLORADO ROCKIES: Troy Tulowitzki is going to have a monster year. You heard it here 374th.

He played out of his mind last September, blasting 15 homeruns and 40 RBIs to nearly lead Colorado into the playoffs. If he can stay healthy for a full season, MVP-caliber numbers will follow.

Carlos Gonzalez and Dexter Fowler are both blossoming offensive talents, and we must never underestimate the power of The Wigginton.

So the real question is: Can Ubaldo Jimenez stay dominant?

An absurdly absurd first half saw Jimenez go 15-1 with a 2.20 ERA before the All-Star break last year, only to collect four more wins the rest of the way.

While the rest of the rotation is decent, Colorado isn't making it to Rocktober unless their ace pitches like one from Opening Day to the final weekend.

But hey, no pressure or anything.

ARIZONA DIAMONDBACKS: If there's any correlation between "time spent typing" and "chances of winning the division," I should have ended this paragraph six words ago.

AND THE WINNER IS: So we have a three team race between the Giants, Dodgers and Rockies.

The Giants have A+ pitching but a C- offense (and that's being kind). The Dodgers have B- pitching to match a B- offense, and the Rockies have the biggest offensive force and second best starting pitcher, but they wear purple.

This is a tough one.

In what should be a great race, I'm going with Colorado. I just love Tulo too much this season, and having the best player in the division certainly has its advantages.

So there you have it. Thanks so much for sticking around.

As a token of my appreciation, I've taken the same brilliant insights and pull-no-punches analysis and applied them to the American League's western division, as well.

Grab a cup of coffee. This could take awhile.


AL WEST: It's the Rangers, and it's not close. Now get outta here.

Mock You Like a Hurricane

Fantasy baseball is the best thing ever invented, narrowly edging out tickle fights. And while both are fun activities you can do with friends, only one will get you kicked out of Arby's.

But what sets fantasy baseball apart is how it embraces---rewards, even---one's obsessive nature.

Every day, set your roster. Every night, check your progress. Every lunch break, try to trade Rich Harden and hope no one realizes he's on the DL (again).

The preseason is even worse. Lists upon lists, rankings upon rankings from countless publications. Make sure you know who's over the hill and who's under the radar.

Know when to buy low (like with Jorge Cantu) and, just as important, know when to sell high (again, Jorge Cantu).

Take into account the players that are on new teams, have switched leagues, are recovering from surgery or play for the Mets.

Once again, I spent way too much time on fantasy prep work...not even absorbing the information, really. Just staring blankly at my computer screen, flipping through the Internet like a digital yearbook.

"Hello, Bill Hall, my old friend. I've come to talk with you again. Hey there, Shin-Soo Choo. How was your Christmas?"

That's what I do when something piques my interest: I devour it, obsess over it, OD on its very life force until I can't take it anymore. It happened with Pokemon. It happened with Lady Gaga. It's happening right now with How I Met Your Mother.

But fantasy baseball takes this lunacy to a whole other level.

Check it: Not only can you draft a fake team, but you can hold a draft to help you prepare for your draft.

Oh, snap! It just got all meta up in here. We're taking this to the next level, Inception-style.

But we're replacing Joseph Gordon-Levitt with Tim Lincecum, eliminating Ellen Page entirely (peace, Juno), and Leonardo DiCaprio...well, Leo can stay.

Man, I have the weirdest boner.

Mock drafts are an excellent tool that all GMs should take advantage of. They give you an idea of what other fantasy players are thinking, and you can adjust your strategy accordingly.

You wouldn't buy a car without checking under the hood, right?

You wouldn't buy a house without doing your research, right?

You wouldn't ask a girl out before stalking her Facebook page, noting which friends are prettier than her and subtly mentioning them in future conversations, making her self-conscious because obviously Amy is just Little Miss Perfect and everybody loves her, until finally the girl's self-esteem plummets so far into the depths of Hell that she'd never have the will power to leave you, right?

Right.

My previous draft strategy has been simple: Pick three position players first, then an elite starting pitcher, then ask, "Is Joe Mauer still available? No? What about CC Sabathia? Him too? Damn. Skip me."

This year will be different. After long nights, tireless research and more crying than I care to admit, I've developed the perfect two-pronged draft strategy.

Step 1: Don't draft any closers in the first ten rounds.
Step 2: Don't draft Adrian Gonzalez at all.

As far as closers go, the only sure thing in this world is Mo Rivera. If you can't snag him, just wait.

The David Aardsmas and Kevin Greggs of the world will be available later...and even if they aren't, at least three previously unknown gentlemen will probably end up with 30 saves somewhere.

Just camp out on the waiver wire and thank me later.

And regarding Adrian, I'm sure playing for the best team in America's most beloved ballpark in front of the greatest fans in the world will more than cancel out the absurdly obvious fact that the AL East is waaay better than the NL West.

But last year I wrote that he'll be "hitting .240 for some American League contender next season." So have the time of your life, Adrian. Just not on my team.

I'm like Charlton Heston dipped in honey...I stick to my guns.

See what I did there? That's what you can expect from Warning Track Power this year: In-depth analysis, elaborate comparisons and jokes that are funny for at least four reasons.

Try to keep up.


Unlike previous drafts, I took four straight position players to start, followed by three straight starters (Verlander, Latos, Gallardo). I even managed to pick up Rangers SS Elvis Andrus, who I really like this season.

Things were going swell until the ninth round when some no-good, dirty, two-bit sonofagun drafted Chad Billingsley one pick before me.

See? This is why we do mock drafts. Lesson learned: Just to be super sure, draft Chad Billingsley first overall.

But everyone gets a superstar or two with their first few picks. The real value is found in the later rounds.

I scooped up almost 100 RBIs in round 16 (David Ortiz), 60 steals one round later (Juan Pierre), and Justin Smoak, the highly-touted Mariners 1B in round 22.

Smoak was a hit-machine for Texas before being sent to Seattle in the Cliff Lee deal. If he can rake even close to his potential, he'll pay off in two ways.

First, great production from late picks is how you win. But second and more importantly, I'd be making Smoak/smoke-based puns for the next six months. Those would never get old.

And if he doesn't deliver the goods? Big deal. Late-round picks are like redheads: They don't matter because their parents don't love them.

To recap my innovative, flawless, cherry-flavored winning fantasy strategy:

Chad first overall... lots of hitters...draft Jorge Cantu...a few pitchers...Chad again just to be sure...trade Jorge Cantu...something something tremendous upside...Juno was a terrible movie.

Gotta run. Amy's Facebook page won't stalk itself.